The Billionaire Banker (3 page)

Lana takes a glass, and with a restraining hand on the surprised waiter’s arm, drains the tall flute. The bubbles hit her at the back of her throat and make her eyes water.

She returns the empty glass to the tray and snags another two.

‘Thanks,’ she says breathlessly, and the waiter, a young Mediterranean type, allows his dark, restless eyes to wander down to her chest.

Rupert watches her with feral, excited eyes. He wants her drunk. He has plans for her. He guides her by the small of her back into one of the rooms. Lana looks at the other women’s clothes. They probably cost more than she makes in a year. Lana feels many pairs of eyes on her. She is aware that she stands out like a sore thumb. She looks towards the string quartet and finds their eyes on her too.

Damn that Barrington guy for inviting them here. She sucks her champagne glass dry. Another waiter passes and she pulls another glass from the tray.

‘Go easy,’ Rupert warns.

She turned towards him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you wanted me drunk and pliable.’

He takes her elbow and leads her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the party he says, ‘I don’t like fucking inert bodies.’

Her eyes widen. The champagne has already gone to her head. No time better than now. She feels courageous again. ‘OK, I’m ready to talk terms now. ‘Right, you don’t want inert bodies. What do you want?’

From the camel’s lips came cold breath. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?’

Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and she has been present while they have raved about it, but she has been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw? When she mentioned it to her mother, her mother had smiled and astutely remarked, ‘The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.’ Lana looks into his pale eyes. ‘No, but isn’t it about a sick man who abuses his lover?’

‘Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.’

‘Is that what you want from me?’

‘Not quite. What I really like is taking a woman by force. A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape. You will meet me in parks and alleyways, or I will pick you up in my car from a street corner and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you and rape you. There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars. And when I am finished I will leave you in the gutter to make your own way back. Would that be acceptable to you?’

Shocked to her core, Lana hears her own voice as if from far away say, ‘How many times would you expect this…service from me?’

‘Let’s say five times?’

She feels as if she is a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire. Rupert’s face is frozen into a cold mask. A businessman to the end. Ten thousand must be the going price. The champagne has made her feel quite light-headed. He is waiting for something from her. He has already figured that her body is her last option. Can she really agree to let someone rape her? Unable to speak she nods.

‘Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,’ he murmurs, and moves closer to her.

Instinctively, she takes a step back on her tall shoes, and if not for the solid wall against her back, would have fallen.

With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding her from the party his hand comes up to pinch her right nipple. So hard she gasps in shock and pain. He takes that opportunity to crash down on her open mouth, bumps his teeth against her lips, and pokes a pointy, muscular tongue into her mouth. His tongue tastes coppery and bitter.

Copious amounts of saliva pour into her mouth making her want to gag. The oysters she has not eaten but watched him eat flash into her mind. His tongue feels slimy and dirty. She wants to brush her teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that her father used to have in the bathroom cabinet. She truly needs to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly by his strong ox-like body to the wall she finds herself totally unable to move. She feels his hand force itself between her thighs and slide up quickly. His rough, sausages-like fingers are already grasping the rim of her knickers and pushing the material aside. And there is not a single thing she can do about it. Tears gather at the backs of her eyes and begin to roll down her face.

Suddenly he removes his mouth and looks down at her.

Her face is white with horror and she is gasping for breath.

He brings up a hand and touches her face. Her distress seems to please him. Her suffering is his pleasure. She is playing the part perfectly. If she had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.

‘For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tel the difference. I can,’ he whispers close to her ear, his thick fingers moving into the folds of her flesh. ‘I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these high and mighty people and none of them will ever know.’

She is filled with loathing for him. Her brain scrambles for escape. ‘Don’t you care,’ she whispers back, through horrified lips, ‘what these people will think of us? Of you?

I thought you were pleased to be in the company of the crème de la crème of society.’

His laugh is harsh and sudden. ‘Did you see anybody come to greet me or talk to me? I am as invisible as you are, probably more so. Nobody is looking at us, because nobody cares about us. We are the outsiders.’

Desperately, she pushes the palms of her hands against his chest.

The nausea threatens at her throat. She must be sick ‘I need the toilet,’ she gasps.

He hesitates for a second and then he smiles. It is the smile of a man who is too pleased with himself. ‘It’s not very posh to say toilet. This lot call it the loo. Go on, then,’ he says, and steps aside.

The first thing her shocked, ashamed eyes meet is Blake.

There is a blonde in a long red dress wrapped around him, but he is staring at Lana with an expression on his face she cannot fathom. His eyes are blazing.

Lana snaps her mouth shut, squares her shoulders, and pushing herself away from the wall takes a step forward.

Her knees feel shaky and she is afraid she will fall, but she does not. She needs to get away. Away from the scene of her humiliation. She feels heads turning to watch her, disgusted expressions and whispers. She stumbles away towards the door. She can hardly control the rising nausea.

She doesn’t dare open her mouth to ask anyone where the loos are, but she spots two young women disappearing down a corridor and she rushes after them. They lead her to a cloakroom and she pushes past them, ignoring their offended cries of ‘Hey’. She runs into one of two cubicles and falling to her knees violently throws up the bits of vegetables she has eaten and the champagne. One of the girls asks if she is all right and she chokes, ‘Fine’. She hears them go into the other cubicle and lock the door.

She sits back on her heels and the hot tears come. She covers her mouth to muffle her sobs. She has made a fool of herself. What will she do? What will she do? Numbly she hears the girls in the next cubicle giggling about what all girls giggle and chat about—men. Then her ears pick up the sounds of them snorting lines of cocaine. When they leave she flushes the toilet and opens the door. She notices what she had not before. How grand the furnishings are.

There is a very large ornate, gilded mirror stretched across the wall. The other toilet seems to be in use and a thin woman with immaculate hair is perched on one of the gold and cream chairs waiting her turn. There is an air of superior calm about her. Her eyes meet Lana’s briefly but curiously, before she enters the cubicle that Lana has vacated.

Lana goes to stand in front of the mirror. She stares at herself. Her face is deathly pale and the cheap mascara she purchased from the market is smudged and running; her lips look as if she has been stung by bees, and her eyes are red from crying. This is what Blake Barrington saw. She looks like she feels. Soiled.

The woman in the other cubicle comes out. She looks identical to the woman who had perched herself on the chair. With a quick, surprised glance at Lana, she goes to stand at the other end of the mirror. She pats her immaculate hair, brushes away imaginary specks of dust from her soft pink dress suit and leaves. Lana turns on the tap and rinses her mouth with plenty of water. Scooping water in her palms she washes her face with hand soap and scrubs it dry with a paper towel. Without her make-up she feels defenseless.

There is a sick pervert out there who wants to rape her and leave her torn and bleeding in alleyways. You could walk away. Say fuck you. She couldn’t. It was so much money. And he knew it. She needed that money. She considers taking the money and not delivering. What could he do? It’s not like he could go to the police or she would be running a refund desk. Then she remembers his eyes. How cold and dangerous. No. Anyway, she has always said, she’d rather be the one who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.

Again her thoughts turn to the Barrington man. Why is he still in her mind? Probably the way he had looked at her. No one. Absolutely no one has looked at her like that.

She indulges in a moment of fantasy. Perhaps he really wants her. He is filthy rich so he will simply give her the money she needs. Gallantly, he will then fall in love with her and they will marry. As she is standing inside her dreams another woman opens the door and enters. It is the blonde in the red dress. She is tall and severely beautiful with an aristocratic nose and bottle-green eyes.

She has the same superior air of all the people at this party.

The same air that Blake Barrington has claimed for himself.

Lana cannot help but watch her through the mirror.

Their eyes meet for a second, then the blonde’s slide away, but in that second there is pure speculation. Everybody knows she does not belong.

Lana looks at her reflection. Who is she kidding? Blake Barrington is the biggest cheese on the board. Simply the way Rupert behaved in his presence told her that. He was probably looking at her because she is dressed like a hooker and he thinks she is one. The only real thing she has is her mother. And there is nothing she will not do for her. She thinks of her father. How easily he had walked away when they had needed him most. How weak his love for them had been. Hers is different. She will not walk away even if she has to walk upon a path of thorns. Bleed she will. And that will be the test of her love.

She will not let herself be distracted by anything. She will survive any amount of sexual humiliation. Five encounters? Her champagne-addled brain says, that’s fucking nothing. The beautiful blonde has turned away from the mirror and entered one of the cubicles. Blake Barrington is welcome to her.

Lana straightens her spine. I can do this, she says to her reflection. I love you, Mum, better than Dad did, much, much better.

She practices the smile she will bestow on Rupert in the mirror, and despite the fear in her belly tells herself that when she is old and wrinkled she will be glad she made this sacrifice. The price will always be worth it. Then there is nothing left to do in that opulent loo, but to walk out of it, and face her decision, and the lengths she will go to for her mother.

She opens the door and Blake Barrington is lounging casually against the wall of the corridor. He straightens when he sees her.

Four

erhaps he is annoyed that he invited her and Rupert Pto this fine party, and they have showed him up and behaved in a disgusting manner. She does not want another confrontation. She has enough on her plate. Not him, as well. She didn’t ask to be invited. She would have ignored him and walked right past had he not raised a detaining finger. She looks defiantly up at him.

His eyes scan her face, now devoid of all make-up. ‘Are you all right?’

Up this close his skin is sunshine and his voice pure velvet. She folds her arms around her body and resists the instinct to take a step back, such is the immensity of animal power he exudes. It is magnetic and irresistible. He reminds her of a panther. Prowling and ready to pounce, full of suppressed restless energy. Muscular, strong.

Thank god, for the shoes. They lift her eyes to the level of his straight, stern mouth. She raises her chin, meets him square in the eye, and in her best secretarial voice, says.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

Oh God, he is going to lecture her. ‘So talk.’

‘Privately—through here, please.’ He gestures with his hand. He is careful not to touch her. The corridor leads to a door. He goes ahead of her and holds it open. She hesitates for a moment, then thinks, fuck it, and walks through. The room appears to be some sort of library with walls full of shelves of leather-bound books. The room smells of new leather. She hears him close the door and turns around.

He is leaning against the door and simply watching her.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘Are you over eighteen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am,’ she snaps. ‘Not that it is any of your business.’

‘What will Lothian get for his money?’

So he did hear. Oh the shame. If the ground could have opened up and swallowed her… Fortunately, a fine anger comes to her rescue. How dare he? The audacity.

Overbearing, arrogant bastard. With all the hauteur she can manage under the circumstances, she grates, ‘That is private if you don’t mind, and if that was all…’